It was the boredom
by 221Bme
Summary: In which Sherlock struggles not to let his other addictions get the best of him, and John misjudges a cold.
1. Chapter 1

It was the boredom.

The intensity of it.

Bored.

Sherlock desperately needed a distraction, something to take his mind off the incessant craving that was eating him alive-but he'd exhausted all his options. He knew that. The only thing keeping him still now was John, seated across from him, calmly reading in the armchair. Sherlock watched him flip the page as if nothing was wrong.

And it wasn't.

But it was.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. His nails were digging into his palms as he attempted to push the urge back down, but it kept coming back to the forefront of his mind. His skin crawled and the old scars on his arms itched with a painful longing that was becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

He bit his lip and tried to focus on the latest case he'd heard about. Lestrade hadn't come to him about it, but that was likely because they hadn't realized it was too complicated for them yet. They would, eventually, and then perhaps he could immerse himself in solving it and just for a moment he might forget-

"Sherlock?" His consciousness came flashing back to the living-room at the sound of John's voice.

He blinked. "What?"

"I've said your name twice now." John had shut the book in his lap and was looking at him with a look akin to worry. But no, it couldn't be that.

"I was thinking. Busy. Case."

"I didn't think you had a case." John slid a bookmark between the pages of his book and set it on the floor by his chair.

"Well, not yet, but I expect I'll be getting one soon. It should prove to be interesting enough."

"It had better be. I can tell you're getting antsy here with nothing to do." Ah, so that had been it. John was worried that Sherlock would be disagreeable, and unpleasant to deal with. Of course.

Sherlock leaned back and rolled over on the couch, discreetly scratching at the scars through the fabric of his dressing gown, though it didn't do much good. It might have made it worse. The icy steel blade slid its way into his thoughts and made him shiver inwardly and lick his lips. It seemed too much of an effort to push it away, to decide against it. It wouldn't let him if he'd tried.

If only he were alone in the room, if only John would leave so he could have some peace and quiet, and an opportunity to make the craving stop. To relieve the need that pulled at him like a riptide, never really ceasing but coming and going in waves that he could sometimes control and other times not. But if John left-

He became aware of a presence above him, and glanced back. John was standing over him with his arms crossed in an annoyingly motherly sort of way.

"What do you want?" Sherlock didn't bother to keep the growl out of his voice. It was too much to bother with.

"I'm just wondering if you're alright. You're being more... Sherlock than usual."

He laughed harshly. "What is that supposed to mean?" So this identified him. Of course it did. It WAS him. It consumed him.

"Uh..." John seemed to realize the oddity of his words. "I mean... You're more out of it. And something's got you bothered."

"I don't get BOTHERED, John. Nothing bothers me, I don't have time for anything except work." Even as he hissed these words he felt his thoughts reverting back to IT, and his voice lost emphasis on the last syllables. If John noticed, he didn't say anything.

"I know, I know. Work." John shrugged heavily and turned to go upstairs. "I'm going to bed. Call if you need me."

"Why-ever would I need you?" Sherlock rolled back over and waved a hand dismissively. The stairs creaked as John disappeared upstairs and he was finally alone.

Alone.

Sherlock sat up slowly. He wasn't honestly sure if he wanted to do it. But that had no bearing; even if he tried to resist he couldn't do it. He had to give in.

He got his feet and paused there by the coffee table, taking in the room, judging the silence to be sure John wasn't coming back downstairs any time soon. Only when he was satisfied that everything was safe did he step purposely across the living-room and seek out his little hiding spot behind the grate in the fireplace. He removed a small wooden box and brought it back to the couch with him.

Flipping open the locks, he paused again to savor the calm. This would be his last chance to choose not to.

Maybe...

Sherlock swallowed and took a deep breath. The need was welling up within him again, drowning his better judgement and choking out any thoughts to the contrary.

Addiction was never easy to refuse.

...

John stifled a yawn as he came downstairs. He had risen early out of habit, even though today was Sunday and he didn't have to go to work at the clinic. He had laid in bed for a while before deciding it was no use trying to go back to sleep and gotten up.

The light was on downstairs, which wasn't surprising. Sherlock probably hadn't slept at all.

John shook his head tiredly and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. It was only when he heard a quiet groan that he realized Sherlock must still be downstairs, but he'd been so still he hadn't noticed him.

"Sherlock?" He put down the spoon he was holding and walked back out into the living-room.

John's brow furrowed when he found him sitting on the floor, leaning against the armchair. He noted that Sherlock seemed paler than usual, and when he lay a hand across his forehead he found it to be cool to the touch.

Sherlock scowled and tried to push his hands away, but didn't have the energy. He blinked drowsily and shook his head. "'m fine..."

"You're not fine, obviously. I'm not completely stupid. Are you sick?" John's mind immediately went into doctor mode and he skimmed through his prior knowledge of conditions with these symptoms. He came up with a few, one of which was blood loss, but he skipped over that one because Sherlock had no apparent wounds. And besides, he'd tell him if he did.

...

"You're not well. Come on, let's get you to bed, alright?" John was speaking, but it sounded slow and far away. Not important.

So Sherlock only shook his head and did his best to stay right where he was, because here was comfortable enough and if he moved his head might start swimming again and the room would be covered in black spots-but now John had knelt and wrapped his arms around him and had hoisted him up to his feet, with considerable effort.

A searing pain flashed behind his eyes and he tried to kick back, but the spots threatened to invade his vision again and he quieted.

John dragged him into his bedroom and heaved him onto the bed as carefully as he could. Sherlock lay there feeling jarred and sluggish, trying to force his limbs to find the energy to sit up and tell John off for being such an overprotective nag, but he couldn't.

Strange.

He'd managed fine the night before, and gotten everything cleaned up nicely. Very nicely. Clever of him.

But now he just felt tired and heavy and slow. The slowness was painful, it was frustrating and excruciatingly limiting, though not half as excruciating as the headache that was starting behind his left temple.

"Any nausea?" John was asking him a question, pushing for an answer, expecting one.

Sherlock parted his lips and summoned his most normal, unaffected voice. "A little." He was surprised at how small and croaky he sounded... Not at all the unaffected sound he was going for.

John pursed his lips and frowned. "You don't sound too good, either. Any coughing? No? Hmm." He thought for a minute. "I'll get you a cup of tea, maybe that'll help a little."

Sherlock was too tired to respond as John went out the door and left him alone again in the quiet room.

Should he tell him?

Tell him what, exactly, Sherlock? This might not have anything to do with what you did to yourself last night. In fact, it probably doesn't. Maybe you really are just sick. A cold, perhaps.

Sherlock didn't get colds.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the conflicting thoughts spinning in his head. He'd never had a problem making sense before...

The door opened again and John came back in with a steaming mug of tea and a plate of something that the doctor confirmed to be toast. He set it on the bedside table.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock considered for a moment and decided to go along with whatever illness John decided he was suffering from. "Poorly."

He nodded. "Drink your tea, if you can." He noticed Sherlock hadn't moved. "Do you need help?"

"Of course not. I'm fine." Sherlock snarled and forced himself to sit up-which immediately proved to be a bad decision as the room swam in and out of darkness and it felt as though the devil himself were crushing his head with a boot heel.

John watched with a concerned look that Sherlock barely noticed. He laid his hand on his forehead again. "Still cool... Sherlock, I'm getting a bit worried. I know you're going to hate me for it, but maybe I should call the hospital."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock made himself open his eyes and focused on John as well as he could with an intense glare. "No. I'm fine, I just need rest, that's entirely out of the question. Don't be stupid, John."

He could not go to a hospital. If he did, they would invariably discover everything, and then everything would be horrible. He'd be forced to stop the only thing that helped now, and he'd be treated like a child and they'd all regard him as a sad little freak and John would be disappointed.

John.

He might be so uncomfortable with it he'd leave.

Sherlock could NOT go to a hospital.

John sighed. "Sherlock..." He sat on the edge of the bed, making it clear he wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. "Will you at least answer a few questions for me?"

He would have to take the silence for a yes.

"Alright... First of all, have you eaten anything recently?"

"Yesterday, the toast you crammed down my throat."

"I didn't cram it down your throat! I just can't let you go that long between meals!" John stopped to compose himself again. No use getting worked up. "Fine. How about anything to drink?"

"Tea, last night."

"Any chills? Headaches?"

"Yes, and yes."

"When did all this start?"

Sherlock hesitated. The truth was going to sound odd. "...two o'clock this morning."

Expectedly, John frowned in thought. "That's sudden. It's only six now, and you already look awful. Sorry." He gave him an apologetic shrug in response to the daggers Sherlock was glaring at him.

He normally wouldn't have put up with so much bad temper from his flatmate, but he could tell Sherlock was in a bad spot and knew from experience as a doctor that patients can get snappy when they're hurting.

He got up from the bed and went to get a thermometer, coming back to stand by Sherlock's head. "Open up."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and refused to look at him. He had no intention of doing anything so pointless and futile as to-He let out a sound of surprise as John took him by the chin firmly and wrenched his jaw open just enough to get the thermometer in. John's own jaw was set in determination, and he seemed to have gone into full doctor mode. "Look, I'm sorry, but you're being childish."

Sherlock's eyes widened in fury and he tried to pull back, but John held on tightly. At no other point in time would he have let himself be manhandled the way John was doing, but there wasn't much he could do about it other than shoot him death glares and make feeble attempts to turn his head away.

At last the thermometer beeped and John removed it and let go of him. He inspected the readout critically. "35C... Sherlock, that's low."

"What, not good?" He scoffed, still trying to regain his composure after being held against his will.

John sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah... A bit not good. Especially since it came on so suddenly. I'm starting to think about calling the hospital again, honestly."

No.

No, no, no.

Sherlock's brain went into high gear, searching desperately for another excuse, a different approach, something that would convince John. Anything. But what?

"If you do that I'll never speak to you again." Where had that come from? It was ridiculous and he knew it. It wasn't going to convince John of anything, and he knew that too. It had just slipped out.

"I know you hate hospitals, but I'm getting worried. You're ill and I don't know what's wrong. Won't you at least humor me? Maybe they can help you feel better."

He bit back the derisive laugh in his throat and rolled his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Them, make him feel better? Honestly.

John reached out and took his wrist to check his pulse, but he hadn't anticipated the detective's immediate, violent reaction to the touch. He frowned as Sherlock drew his arm back with a hiss and curled into himself on the blankets.

"The hell? I'm just trying to take your pulse, no need to be so defensive."

"My pulse is fine."

"Oh? Then let me check it." John wasn't letting this one go so easily. He was clearly still being just as stubborn as he'd been a few minutes ago.

Seeing no way around it, Sherlock slowly held out his left arm. He'd bandaged the very bad cuts the night before, so there wouldn't be any bleed-through, and his sleeves were long enough to cover everything. With any luck, John would only touch his wrist, which was still clean and smooth, like untouched snow. He probably wouldn't notice a thing. Clueless John.

Unbidden anger suddenly welled up in him and he bit his cheek to keep a straight face. How could John not notice? How could he let this go on like it had? Didn't he care? Wasn't it obvious?

But no, it wasn't obvious. Sherlock himself had gone to great lengths to make SURE John stayed in the dark about it. It wasn't his fault he didn't know.

But that didn't automatically mean he cared.

John laid two fingers on the underside of his wrist carefully and left them there for much longer than Sherlock would have liked. "Hmm... It's faster than it should be." His brow furrowed, not removing his hand. "Okay, something's really not right. I'm making the call."

Sherlock sat up quickly, forgetting what happened last time in his haste. But even through the dizziness he felt it, felt John's fingers brush over an old scar as his arm moved when he sat up, and could only hope John hadn't felt it too.

"What was that?"

Damn it.

"What was what?" Sherlock made it a point to keep his voice as nonchalant as he could make it.

"Something on your arm. I touched it." John's eyes had narrowed. He might as well have said it out loud: 'I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.'

...

At John's words Sherlock had instantly shut down, stopped responding, and seemed determined to at least pretend he was asleep.

John bit his lip. He knew trying to talk to him now would get him nowhere, but he didn't want to let this go. He might just be paranoid, but he had a bad feeling about all this. If being a doctor had taught him anything, it was how to pay attention to your patients. And now something didn't add up.

Sherlock hated hospitals, hated being fawned over and cared for, but something was obviously very wrong now. Low body temperature, dizziness, fast pulse, pale skin, nausea... John was almost certain his friend would have enough common sense to let himself be taken care of this once, when he needed it.

But Sherlock was still resisting.

Why?

And not to mention what he'd felt on his arm. John knew a scar when he touched one, thanks to military and medical training. It might just be a token from one of the many dangerous situations Sherlock got himself into, but then why was he being defensive?

Maybe he could use Sherlock's resistance to his advantage...

"Alright. You seem to know what's going on, and I obviously don't." He slid off the bed and stood up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Here's the deal: I'm going to call the hospital, and they can tell me what's wrong, or you can do it here on your own terms. Your choice."

"Bastard..." Sherlock didn't open his eyes, and John didn't move.

"So that's a no? I should call?" He took his mobile from his pocket and unlocked it.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, but he still looked up at the ceiling instead of at him. "No-don't."

John waited expectantly, knowing he had to handle this carefully or Sherlock would close down again and he'd be right back where he started. "Alright, I'm listening."

There was silence for a long minute.

"I . . ." Sherlock hesitated, sighing. "Blood. It's blood loss."

Everything clicked together in John's mind, all the symptoms made sense, except for one thing-how? Sherlock didn't appear to be about to clear that up. He seemed to be waiting to see if John had figured it out himself. He hadn't, obviously. He expected too much of him, John thought with mild annoyance.

"Are you going to tell me...?" He ventured carefully.

"No." The reply was blunt and decisive.

He pursed his lips and turned back to his mobile. He punched in the hospital's number. "Fine then..."

"Wait-" Sherlock had sat up again, looking vaguely panicked. "Don't. I'll tell you. Just don't."

John raised an eyebrow. He went back over to the bed and stood there a moment before he took a seat on the edge, beside Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard in silence. He opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, then shut it again.

John was feeling more and more confused, and more than a little worried; the detective was never this indecisive or hesitant about anything. Ever.

So why now?

And how had he gotten hurt?

Why hadn't he said something?

"John." Sherlock's low voice broke through his thoughts. He looked up, and was startled by the look on Sherlock's face. He appeared genuinely distraught, even pained. "Er..." He faltered again. "It isn't logical... It won't make sense..."

"Sherlock, what are you-"

He only shook his head and brought his arms up, pausing with the edge of his sleeve in his fingers, as if trying to steel himself against something. Then he slowly pulled it up to his elbow.

John's blood chilled as his eyes traveled up the pale arm, past the untouched wrist and then up over the countless white scars that decorated Sherlock's skin, laid over with newer ones, some very recent and still red and angry. Halfway up his arm the bandages started, sloppily done and already soaked through with scarlet.

It felt as though the bottom had dropped out of John's stomach. He felt sick.

He didn't want to know exactly what this was. But he did. He knew.

He'd just never thought...

Sherlock quickly pulled the sleeve back down, taking his silence and pallor for revulsion. He turned away in an attempt to curl in on himself again, to shut him out. But John quickly leaned forward and took him by the wrist firmly. He pulled the sleeve back up and knelt on the blankets in front of him, examining the damage carefully, every cut, every line.

At last he choked out, "For how long...?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes. "...a year. It's... an old habit I went back to."

John looked at him and breathed, "Why?"

He fell silent again.

"Sherlock please-" He barely noticed how tight his grip on Sherlock's wrist had become, and only when the other man winced quietly did he become aware and relent slightly. "Sorry... Just... Why? Why would you do this?"


	3. Chapter 3

"I was bored, John."

The answer caught him off guard, like a slap in the face.

"Sherlock, you were not just BORED! Don't even try to tell me- You took a blade and... and... People don't just do that when they're BORED! Human beings don't destroy themselves for ENTERTAINMENT! You can't expect me to believe-" He stopped and took a moment to catch his breath and steady himself.

Sherlock frowned quizzically. Boredom. That was why he'd done all this... Wasn't it?

All he said was, "I'm not destroying myself."

"Oh really?! Really?! What do you call this, then, Sherlock?" He tugged his arm out straight and gave him a pointed look. "Go on, I want to hear it!"

John's eyes were a little wider than normal. His voice was strained. He kept blinking, hard, and Sherlock could see his pulse. All indicators of distress.

Perhaps he did care...?

Or maybe he was upset that he thought Sherlock had lied to him. That must be it.

"Sherlock, look at me." He'd cleared his throat and had lowered his voice so it wouldn't crack. "Come on, look."

Sherlock brought his gaze back to his face, slightly questioning.

John shut his eyes for a second and searched for the right words to say.

"Okay... I'm your friend. Is that important to you at all? Do you even understand how people worry about their best friends?" He ignored Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "They do. A lot. And when they find them doing something like this... Yeah, it makes them worried. But it makes me sad, too."

"You changed your personal pronouns." Sherlock observed quietly.

"I did..." He sighed. "Because it means a lot to me. It's personal. I don't even know if you can see how this affects me, but it does. I hate worrying like this, and... I know you're all about being cold and emotionless, but I know why other people do this to themselves and I can't believe it's that much different for you. So yeah, I worry."

"You believe I'm depressed? John, you know I just-"

"I've just found out my best friend is _cutting himself_-don't you dare tell me it's nothing!" Though he meant to put more emphasis on these words, they came out as little more than strained whispers.

Sherlock quieted again and lowered his eyes.

John half sat up and seemed to change plans mid-movement, pulling him forward by the wrist and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders in a hug that caught the detective completely off guard.

"John-?"

"Shhh." Perhaps it was selfish, but he stayed like that for a minute before he released him and sat back, wiping his eyes and looking only slightly abashed. He brushed the edge of the bandages on Sherlock's arms. "Let me see."

Sherlock cringed away. "No..."

"I'm the doctor, dammit. _Let me see._"

John unwrapped the bandages as carefully as he could, and Sherlock watched in silence. He'd been aware of a creeping darkness in the back of his skull for the last few minutes, and now he focused on the sting of the open air on his wounds in an attempt to keep it from spreading and to keep himself grounded and awake.

He watched as John bit his lip. The cuts were deep-a bit too deep, Sherlock knew. He'd realized that too late, but he'd managed to lessen, if not stop the bleeding eventually, until now that John had unwrapped them again. It had gotten his heart beating a bit faster last night, when so much blood had spilled forth and didn't stop, so much of it, way too much... He'd almost panicked...

The memory began to dim as his consciousness went hazy and his vision swam.

"I'm calling the hospital."

It had been boredom. Hadn't it?

Just bored.

...right?

...

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Sterile.

A strong smell of antiseptic.

Bright lights through closed eyelids.

Too uncomfortable.

And that irritating beeping...

Hospital?

Sherlock's mind gradually surfaced back to reality. He was now aware of a warm pressure on his left hand where it lay on the bed sheets, and he slowly opened one eye and stared down at John's hand, resting over top of his own.

His brain still felt thick and clouded-this time likely by medications as much as blood loss-and he struggled to make sense of everything. John was asleep in the chair beside the bed, his chin resting on his shoulder awkwardly. He must have been there a long time.

Sherlock registered a pronounced numbness in his arms and concluded that he'd been given a strong pain reliever and mostly likely received stitches in both arms. How annoying... But they'd leave nice scars, at least. He smiled drowsily to himself at the thought. He couldn't have said why, but he liked the scars.

John wouldn't understand.

Sherlock glanced over at him again. With everything that had happened... He wasn't sure if he liked the outcome.

John had said he cared, in a way. That was surprising-he'd been certain no one did. Then again, it could have been just words. But now that John knew everything... Sherlock's worries had been realized; he bit back a curse and stared up at the ceiling.

But... John was still here.

He was still sitting next to him, holding his hand.

He hadn't left.

Not that Sherlock needed that sort of silly support, of course, but he felt reassured nonetheless.

John made a sudden sound and jerked awake, and momentary panic showed in his eyes-but then he saw Sherlock looking at him, and he relaxed again.

"Oh... You're awake." He said lamely and let go of Sherlock's hand, knowing he wasn't fond of excess contact.

"Yes, I am. Didn't I say something about not wanting to be here...?" It was an accusation, not a question.

"You lost the right to choose when you did this. You lost a lot of blood, Sherlock. It really shouldn't have taken this long to get it remedied-you might have faced serious consequences. Does that mean anything to you?" He grimaced at his stiff neck and shifted in his chair. "You should have come to me as soon as it happened and told me so I could help you. Not waited all damn night on the floor, and then let me think you just had a cold or something."

"I didn't want to come here."

John sighed. This felt like walking around in circles in Antarctica. "But why? Why couldn't you have used some common sense and just let yourself be taken care of, just this once? Because it WAS necessary."

"Because... If I went to the hospital I knew they'd find all this..." Sherlock nodded to his arms, which were now bandaged cleanly.

John shut his eyes for a moment. "And that couldn't happen because...? You wanted to continue killing yourself slowly, right under my nose? Never going to let me know until it was too late, was that the plan?" He ignored the slight furrow in Sherlock's brow; he wasn't controlling what he said now. Tiredness and emotion had destroyed his filter.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. Don't be overly dramatic-"

"_I'M_ not the one being dramatic, Sherlock! You passed out on me because you'd been fucking slashing your arms to hell! Think for a second, will you?! Can you picture what this looks like from my perspective?!"

Sherlock went quiet, but John paid him no heed and went on heatedly. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do for you anymore, honestly! I thought I was doing alright, but I guess not! And you won't even tell me truthfully why you even started this-you don't even want help! Well what _do_ you want, then?! Am I not paying you enough attention?! Not praising you enough?!"

It registered in John's mind how scathing his words sounded as they left his lips, but he was too worked up to care. He knew it was cruel-and maybe he meant it that way.

Sherlock's eyes reflected quiet hurt, but he remained still.

No. No-John _didn't_ mean it that way.

Sherlock's lack of fight only made him feel worse. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean that… I just don't understand why you won't come to me. You're my best friend. I want to help."

"…Help…?"

"Yes, help. You have a problem, and I want to help you fix it. But I don't see why you won't let me."

"I just thought… that if you found out, maybe you'd..." Sherlock hesitated uncertainly. "...maybe you'd leave."


	4. Chapter 4

The day was a cold one. John watched the little puffs of frozen breath escaping from between Sherlock's lips as he sighed silently. Other than that he might not have known the detective was still breathing.

He hadn't spoken a word the entire cab ride home from the hospital to the doorstep of 221B, though John had snuck little sideways glances every now and then, watching Sherlock's expression reflected in the frosty window.

It hadn't told him anything.

Sherlock tightened his coat around his shoulders. This way, John supposed, with scars covered up and no strained conversation, everything almost seemed back to normal. If he could call it that.

He fumbled for his key with numb hands while Sherlock stood by impatiently. It had only been two days since he'd found out about his flatmate's 'little problem,' and already he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He'd never personally known anyone with this kind of vice, but he'd seen a handful of patients with it in his work at the clinic. They never stayed long.

And if he'd thought that that prepared him for dealing with it in the form of his closest friend, he would have been dead wrong.

At last he got the door opened and the two of them went inside, the warm air a welcome relief to their cold cheeks and frozen noses. Sherlock immediately went up the stairs, pulling off his scarf and coat, and John hurried after him with a vague feeling of paranoia. He didn't like leaving him alone anymore.

Thankfully Sherlock went straight to the sofa and threw himself onto it, being careful to avoid hitting his arms. How he could stand to lie around so much was a mystery to John.

John stood there in the doorway for a minute before he hung up his own coat and surveyed the chaos of their flat. He was going to have quite the job ahead of him. The kitchen was his first stop, where he gathered up all the knives he could find and deposited them all in a cardboard box on the dining table. Next he moved on to the living room, searching every surface and turning up a few scalpels and an old penknife he'd forgotten existed. Everything sharp went into the box, and when he figured he was finished he closed it up and set it next to his own bed. He'd have to find something better to do with it later.

Sherlock watched him from the sofa without comment. John couldn't tell from his expression what he thought of his actions, but he decided that he'd ignore it no matter what, because he damn well wasn't taking any more chances.

"What am I supposed to use for my experiments now?" Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"...I suppose you're out of luck. Maybe you can do some experiments that don't involve slicing anything up." The last words felt bad on his tongue and brought up mental images that made his heart hurt, which was odd because he hadn't meant them that way.

Sherlock didn't respond, having fallen back into the moody silence that had become so common for him recently.

John walked over and settled into his chair. Should he pick up a book? No... He couldn't focus on reading if he'd tried. The silence weighed heavily on him, like a physical incarnation of Sherlock's mood, pressing in on his chest and making the atmosphere in the room uncomfortably thick.

He licked his lips and glanced at him again. A year, he'd said... John was suddenly kicking himself mentally.

A year. A whole damn year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of blissful ignorance on his part, and that whole time Sherlock had been quietly 'dealing' with whatever it was that made him do this. He'd never said anything.

But then, John had never asked.

Now that he thought back on it, there had been signs. Signs he hadn't seen, times he could have made a difference but he hadn't because he'd been so stupid he couldn't recognize what was happening.

Why hadn't he pushed the issue further when Sherlock had worn long sleeves even on warm days? Why didn't he question the fact that he was so uncomfortable with being touched, especially on his _arms?_

It had been obvious. And he'd missed every cue. Every single one.

He sighed softly. If this was his fault, he was now determined to make it right.

Back in the hospital when they had been talking, John had been surprised by how open Sherlock had been-how vulnerable he'd seemed. It was a side he'd never seen before, and quite honestly one he imagined didn't exist. But he didn't doubt it now. He knew for a fact Sherlock had feelings, even if at times it seemed he didn't, and the scars only showed that they weren't always happy ones.

No matter how many times he heard it John would not believe that Sherlock was just bored. As bad as the cutting seemed, he knew it only scratched the surface of the problem. It was a result, and results _always_ have causes.

"...Sherlock?" It was a shot in the dark, and he knew he probably wouldn't get a reply, but the silence was about to suffocate him.

Sherlock only groaned into the cushions.

"Can we talk?" John waited in vain for another response. "It doesn't even have to be about... _it,_ if you don't want to. Just something."

He had almost begun to think he wasn't going to get anywhere when Sherlock spoke at last. "Talk about what, then? The weather?"

"Is that what it's going to take?"

"Mm."

Was that a yes or a no? "It's cold out. It might snow tonight."

"Mmm."

"Is there something on your mind?" He ignored the stupidity of the question.

Even he knew the answer, but he still needed to ask it.

Sherlock shifted a little to stare up at the ceiling. "John, I think you know exactly what's on my mind, and I'm doing my best to ignore it. Talking about the weather isn't going to help."

"Oh." John sat there looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "Yeah."

He should have known.

"Well, is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, there isn't!" Sherlock half sat up. "You've done everything I didn't want you to-you forced me to the hospital, you forced me to tell you about _this_-" He gestured to the bandages angrily. "-you cleaned out the flat because you don't trust me, and you're trying to force me to stop doing the only thing that helps make things more manageable, and-" He shut his mouth, realizing he'd said too much.

John stared at him in surprise. Forced him? Wasn't this for the better? Wasn't this saving him a lot of pain? "I'm only trying to help you. I did those things because I care. Why are you angry with me?"

"I'm not angry with you!" Sherlock rolled over again. "No, wait, I am! I'm fucking _furious!_ Why couldn't you have just left me alone?! I don't want this!"

John took a deep breath. "I know you don't. And I'm sorry if this seems selfish, but I can't stand to see you hurting. So I'm doing what I have to do."

"Well congratulations, then, you can't see it anymore! And if you can't see it, it's gone, right?!"

"That's not what I-"

"Maybe not, but it's what you're doing!"

"I just... I don't want you to do this anymore. If that means fixing other things too, then we'll do that. But this isn't a good way to cope. You can see that, right?"

Sherlock went quiet again, and lay back on the sofa.

"I'm serious," John persisted. "Can you see why I don't like this? It isn't good for you. It's hurting you."

"No." Sherlock muttered. "It was helping."

"Honestly?! I had to take you to the hospital for blood loss! You had to have stitches! If I hadn't been there and found out you might have bled out and DIED!"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and said nothing. The heavy silence that settled back over the room made it clear that the conversation was over, even though John felt he had more to say.

He sighed and heaved himself up from his chair, unable to stand staying in the room any more. "I'm going to bed. If you need me, just-"

"I won't need you."

...

John slept fitfully, and when his alarm clock went off at 6:05 am he lay there for several minutes before rolling over and turning it off. He'd called Sarah the other day and explained that, for reasons he hadn't disclosed, his flatmate was in the hospital and he had to stay with him and miss work. But now that Sherlock was home he didn't have an excuse.

Maybe it would be fine. He'd removed all the blades he could find from the flat, and he could drop the box off at Mycroft's on his way to work-Mycroft likely already knew about some or all of this, _the sneaky git_-and he wanted to trust Sherlock. He really did. He was aware that he'd given him no reason to, but he had to start somewhere.

To be on the safe side, though, he would ask Mrs. Hudson to come check up on him while John was out.

Sherlock was still on the couch when he came downstairs, and responded grudgingly to John's 'good morning.' He looked alright, so John felt better about having to leave him.

He had a cup of coffee, tried unsuccessfully to talk Sherlock into having something, and ran out to catch a cab.

The day passed slowly. Nothing very interesting or difficult to treat turned up at the clinic, and he found himself praying for his shift to end.

Sarah seemed to notice he was bothered, and during a lull she came into his office.

"John?"

"Mm?" He looked up from the papers he was going through. "What is it?"

"Are you alright? You just seem a little preoccupied."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. It's just..."

"Your flatmate?" She smiled sympathetically as he nodded in slight surprise. "You said he was in hospital."

"Oh, right." He shrugged. "Well, he's home now, so..."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

John hesitated. He hadn't told anyone about Sherlock's problem since he found out himself... And it was weighing heavily on his mind and on his shoulders, a weight that talking might help lessen... But then, if he wanted to trust Sherlock he needed to be trustworthy himself, and he knew his friend probably wouldn't like having just anyone know.

So he shook his head and gave Sarah a small smile that he hoped looked convincing. "No, it's alright, thanks." He glanced at the office door. "I think I just heard someone come in."

"Oh, you're right-"

She hadn't tried again after that, and John was thankful for it. He might have given in if she had. Finally his shift ended, and just in time too, as he was starting to feel the effects of his poor night's sleep.

He left the clinic, waving goodbye to Sarah, and caught another cab back to 221B.


	5. Chapter 5

When the cab pulled up in front of the flat he sat there for a minute or so, just trying to ready himself to go inside.

All this worry was taking a lot out of him. He finally opened the door and got out, looking up at the building and letting out a big breath, watching a few snowflakes spiraling down to earth.

Why did this have to happen...?

But everything would be alright. He and Sherlock would work through this, and everything would go back to the way it was before and it would all be fine.

He nodded to himself and shivered in the cold. He went up the steps and unlocked the door, edging inside so he let in as little frigid air as possible.

Mrs. Hudson met him in the foyer, giving him a warm smile. "Welcome home, dear. I checked on Sherlock like you asked, about an hour ago. He seemed just fine."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He returned her smile, but didn't think his own looked half as reassuring.

As he climbed the steps he mumbled to himself quietly, trying to get the excess thoughts out of his head, to lessen the painful tightness in his chest.

Was this the way Sherlock felt sometimes...? He pushed open the door and went into the flat. He was exhausted, and didn't pay any particular attention to anything around him, not even to switch on the lights.

...why were the lights off?

John swung his bag from his shoulder and tossed it onto the table, looking around in the dim room. "Sherlock?" He moved forward and felt his way around. "Sherlock are you in here?"

The grate in the fireplace had been moved.

Strange.

He determined the living-room to be quite empty of Sherlock, and was about to go back to turn on the lights-as he should have done before-when he noticed the soft glow under the detective's bedroom door. John paused with his hand on the doorknob. Should he knock? He decided to try once, and when he got no response he bit his lip and pushed the door open anyway. "Are you awake...?"

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. Then his breath caught.

"Oh god, Sherlock-"

...

Sherlock looked up from his seat on the bed with an almost dead gaze. He held the scalpel tightly, as if it were a lifeline that might slip away if he let go. His face was unreadable, but his lips trembled ever so slightly.

John took in the scalpel, the little wooden box that stood open beside him on the blankets, filled with an assortment of blades, his rolled up sleeves—and acted before he even had time to think.

He tackled him in his haste and wrenched the scalpel from his hands as Sherlock held on, leaning forward and mumbling pleadingly, "John, please—no—I didn't— let go... Please... please..."

John didn't speak. He couldn't. He was aware, through a rushing haze of adrenaline, that he was holding Sherlock too tightly, that he was hurting him—but he could only focus on getting that scalpel away from him. Sherlock's grip loosened enough for him to pry the blade from his fingers and throw it as far away from them as he could. He wrestled him down onto the blankets and held him there, pinned on his back.

Sherlock shut his eyes, struggling to push him away. "Get off! I wasn't going to—"

"YOU HAD MORE BLADES!" John leaned over him and quickly examined his exposed arms, searching frantically for the fresh cuts he knew must be there.

But he couldn't find any...

"No—I wasn't—"

John gripped handfuls of his shirt in his fists. "WHAT DID YOU DO?! SHERLOCK, WHAT DID YOU—"

"I WASN'T GOING TO DO IT!" Sherlock's voice finally broke, and he lay there glaring up at him with gritted teeth and a faint flush on his cheeks.

"But you... I saw..."

"I thought about it, but I wasn't going to do it!" He hissed. "I decided not to!"

He'd... What?

John sat back a bit and allowed him some room to breathe. If—IF—he could believe him, this would be a huge step in the right direction. But just yesterday he hadn't even acknowledged that it was hurting him... Was it too much to hope that this was the truth?

Yes. Yes it was.

"Sherlock…" He let out a long, pent up breath and rested his forehead on the detective's chest in pure exhaustion. "Look. I just want this to stop. You say you're just bored. So what if I do everything I can to keep you from being bored, and we'll see if that helps, okay?"

John knew it was bull. Sherlock wasn't bored. But he had to find a way to prove it, and if being straightforward didn't work, then he was willing to try humoring him.

John was a doctor, not a psychologist, but he liked to think he could also be whatever the situation demanded-and if Sherlock had reason enough to self harm then there must also be reason for him to have a nice long talk with someone who would listen, i.e. a therapist.

But this was Sherlock.

That was unthinkable.

Preposterous, even.

So John, with his insufficient training and licensing in this particular area, would have to do.


	6. Chapter 6

In all outward respects this felt like any other afternoon spent indoors in the living room of 221B, with the curtains half drawn to block out the bleak pitter-patter of rain on the glass, with Sherlock curled on the sofa in his blue silk dressing gown, and John in the armchair with the reading lamp on, where it was perched precariously on a stack of old science books.

But John wasn't reading; he wouldn't have been able to focus on a book anyway, because this was not quite like just any other afternoon in the flat.

He supposed Sherlock sensed that, as well, but it was just bloody like him not to mention it and to drag out the uncomfortable silence.

Or maybe that was all in John's head.

There had been a lot in there recently. Too much to deal with.

And this, this was probably only going to increase the volume of things he had to worry and think about.

He found himself wishing yet again that he could be like Sherlock and delete particular memories from his mind, and never have to bother with them again. Wouldn't that be lovely.

Which ones he'd delete first was the next question... Perhaps the breakup with his latest girlfriend. He had Sherlock and his smart mouth-which he'd never learned to close-to thank for that one.

Or perhaps he'd delete the moment he'd found out about all this.

That particular moment had been weighing heavily on him ever since, and it never quite left him alone.

The sheer number of scars, the depth of them, the way the deeper cuts reflected a sort of lack of control... It scared him.

And he wasn't even the one who had spent a night in a hospital bed being treated for blood loss.

But it did, because... It was so unlike Sherlock. So... human.

Maybe that was another reason he'd kept it hidden so well; he'd do anything to make sure no one ever knew when he lost control.

Or was it a form of control in itself? Discipline the flesh for what the soul was feeling or needing?

He shook his head dazedly.

This was getting much too philosophical for his own good. Back to reality now.

Sherlock had said then that this was 'an old habit he'd gone back to.' But how old of a habit did that mean? That might be a good place to start, he supposed. At least, he couldn't think of anything better.

He cleared his throat. "Sherlock? Can I talk to you?"

"That depends entirely on what you're going to say." Sherlock rolled over a bit. "If you're worried about the petri dish in the oven, I assure you it isn't as infectious as you think it is."

"No, I-what?"

"Continue. I'm listening." Sherlock stretched out on his back and propped his head up on the couch cushions, lacing his fingers together over his chest.

Well, that just completed the little therapist/patient scene this was likely about to become.

Perfect.

John sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck. "Look... There's just been something I've been wondering, about this whole cu..." He stopped. "thing." He found he didn't want to say it out loud, for some reason.

"Cutting. That's what you mean, yes?"

John swallowed. "Yeah. Of course." He hadn't expected Sherlock to be so blunt about it, but he probably should have, especially from him. "I just... You said it was an old habit."

Sherlock nodded, but offered nothing more. He might as well have just rolled his eyes and said _'so?' _

"So I was wondering if you could tell me exactly when that started, if you haven't deleted that too."

A little smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I may have. Is it important to you?"

"Well, it would be nice to know, you know, to help me get a better picture..."

The smile disappeared, and was replaced by a slight frown. "Not this again. I told you before, I was merely bored."

This was definitely going to be a challenge in patience, on John's part.

"...right. Then you telling me when it started would help me figure out exactly what it was that made you bored enough to... to..."

"Cut."

"Yeah. Help us figure out the trigger, you could say."

Sherlock took a breath and let it out again, examining his knuckles as he considered the idea thoughtfully, and apparently didn't find it all that horrible. "Hmm. Perhaps you're right for once."

_Going to ignore that one._

"Okay, good." John found himself letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. This was going really well, actually. "Good. So. Do you think you can remember when...?"

"The first time..." Sherlock shut his eyes and rested the tips of his steepled fingers against his lips in deep thought. After a while he nodded, without opening his eyes. "I do seem to remember. 12, I believe."

John sat there for a few seconds, his brow furrowed. "12. 12 years old? Sherlock, that's... I mean..."

What had John been doing back when he was 12 years old?

Softball?

Getting solid B's and C's in school?

Playing tag with his friends?

And meanwhile the young Holmes had been likely holed up in his room with scalpels and razors and whatever demon he was up against...

John found it difficult to imagine even being aware that self mutilation was an option at that age.

He wished Sherlock hadn't been aware either.

But it was much, much too late for that.

But if it started when Sherlock was 12, then he would still have been living at home. And it must have continued for a long time, so why hadn't anyone noticed? Admittedly, it had taken John himself an entire year to realize-but still, his parents...

"Didn't anyone... You know, find out? Try to stop you?"

Sherlock scoffed, and really did roll his eyes this time. "Who would find out? My parents were practically living overseas at that point, and Mycroft spent days at a time away at school."

"So who were you living with, then?"

"Myself." He smirked condescendingly. "I, unlike most children my age, was mature enough to take care of myself."

Wait, that meant...

"Maturity has nothing to do with it. What you're telling me is that you were basically alone for days and days in your house with no one to talk to, or..."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I want to talk to anyone?"

"Of course. Why would you want to do that..." John spoke with quiet resignation, pursing his lips and resting his chin in his palm. "Do you think that was part of it?"

"Mm?" Sherlock glanced over at him, for the first time since the conversation began.

"Er, do you think that all that solitude could have made you a little, well, lonely? And maybe that-" He continued quickly before Sherlock could say whatever he was surely about to come out with. "-could have resulted in you being bored. Bored enough to do this."

Sherlock lay back again and considered. "Hmm... Bored... You know, that might be a just slightly feasible hypothesis. I'm surprised you came up with something so logical."

John almost smiled.

But not quite.

His heart clenched at seeing how eagerly Sherlock latched onto this little game that let him direct the focus of the conversation onto anything other than his own feelings, how he was so pleased to be able to explain his problem away in terms of boredom and logic and maturity... How contented he was to pretend it didn't exist, or that John didn't know...

It was almost pitiful.

And John felt sorry for him.

But he could never have said that, or this entire thing would backfire and all the careful work he had done to keep the conversation going without making Sherlock feel he was being psychoanalyzed would go to waste.

God.

This was so backwards.

Sherlock was supposed to be the one psychoanalyzing, if any such thing needed to be done, not John.

Then again... quite a lot of things seemed to be backwards these days.


	7. Chapter 7

"Okay, now the other sleeve." John waited patiently as Sherlock groaned and rolled up his left sleeve, letting him check his arm over carefully.

"I told you, I'm clean."

"I know you did, but I'm only human. I have to check." John stepped back and let him roll his sleeves back down.

Nothing new...

Strange.

It had been a whole week and a half, and though John insisted Sherlock let him check every few days, it seemed he really was telling the truth. He was clean.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, walking back to the kitchen to start the tea. He had been sure this would have been a much more difficult habit to break, considering what it was and why he probably did it. But it had been over two weeks since Sherlock had cut; not since the trip to the hospital.

Not since John had started the 'let's-keep-Sherlock-not-bored' campaign.

Not since he hadn't been bored...

No, that couldn't be it.

John brushed the thought aside stubbornly and poured the hot water into mugs, watching the steam condense on the sides. It wasn't just because Sherlock was bored. There had to be something else.

There had to be.

Didn't there?

John knew human beings weren't like that-they didn't just inflict horrible pain on themselves because there was nothing else to do that day. He knew he would never do something like that himself.

But... There were a lot of things Sherlock did that John would never think to do...

No, no, no.

No.

No matter how many times he made him doubt it, Sherlock was human too-and even if many didn't, at least some rules of nature did apply to the smartest man in London. This had to be one of them.

Not boredom.

Right?

"Dammit..." John stopped stirring the tea and stood there for a few seconds, looking from the open salt container to his mug, and back again. "Did I really just..."

Right now, putting two spoonfuls of salt into his tea instead of sugar should have been the least of his worries, but it grated on his already raw nerves like the edge of a rusty knife.

"God dammit!" He brought his fist down on the counter, making the spoon jump in the cup and Sherlock look up from the sofa.

"Something wrong?"

"No, no there's nothing wrong. Nothing." He was aware of his tone as his words hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn't have the patience right now to do anything about it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and watched him empty the mug into the sink and toss the spoon in along with it with a loud clatter. "I'm going out for some air."

John went for his coat and was already halfway out the door as he pulled it on.

"It's already eight thirty-"

"I'd noticed that, thanks." He shut the door before Sherlock could say anything else-or perhaps it was really before John could say anything else even more waspish.

That was the last thing he needed to be doing right now.

Losing his temper. Over what?

Salt?

Or maybe the fact that he might have been wrong.

Maybe...

He raised his head and looked up at the front window, where the lights were still on and where Sherlock was likely still sitting on the sofa, probably more than a little irritated with him.

_Why did John have to be like this...?_ He pinched the bridge of his nose and set off walking down the dark street.

He would have to make up for this later.

But right now was not the time.

Now he had to cool off a little first.

...

_Twenty minutes earlier..._

"Okay, now the other sleeve." Sherlock groaned inwardly-and outwardly-as John waited for him to roll up his left sleeve for the obligatory inspection, which was completely unnecessary.

Sherlock had told him multiple times that he was clean now, and that was the truth. But no matter how many times he told him it didn't seem to convince him-the stubborn git.

He unbuttoned the cuff and pulled the sleeve up, waiting for John to examine his arm carefully. When he didn't find anything Sherlock smirked and rolled his sleeve back down. "I told you, I'm clean."

"I know you did, but I'm only human. I have to check."

No, he didn't. Sherlock had told him already. And it was true.

Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way to the sofa, where he settled on his back and stared up at the ceiling, hands clasped over his chest. He could hear the clinking of mugs and the clank of the kettle as John started the tea.

John had been acting strangely for the last two weeks, ever since he had found out about the cutting. Sherlock had noticed that he had seemed rather on edge all the time, and was particularly..._ protective_ was the word Sherlock wanted to use, but it wasn't the right one. It couldn't be.

_Overbearing._

Yes.

John hadn't left when he found out, and that was good.

But now he hardly let him out of his sight, and that was a bit not good.

It got irritating fast. He sighed quietly and counted the dents on the ceiling for the hundred-thousandth time.

_His scars ached. _Why was that?

It was as though he wanted to...

Really wanted to...

But no. He wasn't bored. That didn't make sense.

He wasn't bored...

_It was getting stronger._

Not bored...

A week ago he had picked up a blade from the morgue, without asking anyone of course, and without telling John, because he would obviously be adverse to the idea after he had gone so far as to clean out the flat of all things sharp.

But it was okay, because he wasn't planning on using it. He just liked having it. It... gave him a certain sense of security. A reassurance.

_Where had he put it...?_

He leaned back and contemplated everything quietly-but he was interrupted by a sudden banging sound from the kitchen and John's outburst of "God dammit!"

He sat up and looked over at him. "Something wrong?"

"No, no there's nothing wrong. Nothing." John snapped quickly and emptied his mug of tea into the sink.

Why was he upset now...?

Was it something Sherlock had said...?

He couldn't think of anything that would make him so tetchy, but people like John cared about the most unimportant things...

John announced that he was going out 'for some air'-but his tone and posture radiated anger, which was even more confusing.

If he was angry why wasn't he confronting him?

Maybe it was too terrible...

It was late anyway.

"It's already eight thirty-" Sherlock tried, sitting up, but John was already out the door.

"I'd noticed that, thanks." He cut him off, and then the door slammed shut and he was gone.

Well.

Sherlock sat there quietly for a little while, and then lay back again resignedly and gazed up at nothing in particular.

_ The blade was under a copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, volume III, on the bookshelf._

He must have done something wrong. Again. Maybe this time it had been enough to drive John out the door forever...

Maybe it was because he was too needy. Too weak.

But he'd told him he had just been bored...

He had been...

_His scars itched._

...Hadn't he?


	8. Chapter 8

The moon was bright in the velvety night sky as John trudged down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide them from the chill. The world seemed so clear and obvious here, lit up by the moon and the stars and the glowing Tesco sign.

Why couldn't everything really be this clear?

Why did it all have to be so shadowy and confusing?

And Sherlock wasn't helping.

He appeared to have quit cutting, yes, but that couldn't be it. The story couldn't just stop there.

Back in school John had heard about a girl who had the same problem. He had never actually met her, but he'd heard rumours. Gossip, mostly, cruel things.

But they stopped being cruel and swiftly became fake words of love and remorse once it all went a little too far and she'd let it go a little too deep.

Addictions didn't just stop.

It wasn't a switch you could just turn on and off.

Something was pushing Sherlock, like that girl from school. John didn't know what it was, and that was more unsettling than anything, because if he didn't know what it was, how could he possibly make sure it didn't go too far...?

But then again, was that really his job?

Sherlock had somehow made it all the way up from a 12 year old to a grown man without letting it slip, without letting it go too deep. Maybe he didn't need John's help so desperately.

He shook his head and took a deep breath of the sharp night air.

That was his own exhaustion talking, trying to rationalise and get himself off the hook. Only it was wrong.

Had he forgotten what happened two weeks ago? Sherlock's upper arms had required nearly twenty stitches. He'd lost so much blood John had thought he was ill.

If that wasn't too deep, John didn't know what was.

And now he was resisting. That had to be it. To show John that it really _was_ just the boredom-when it really wasn't at all.

After the fact John had spent some time on the internet doing a little research on the topic, in an attempt to find something useful. He knew Sherlock was a special case-always a special case-but he was at a loss and could really do with a little outside opinion.

He'd stumbled on a quote on some website, the name of which he'd forgotten, but the words stuck with him. He went back over them, wondering if they were true in this particular situation, if they really applied.

_"You don't understand how much pain you have to be in to drag a blade across your skin because that's the only pain you can control."_

That dead look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd found him with his secret stash of blades had not spelled boredom. It had spelled hopelessness. In a way, giving up.

That had been two weeks ago...

John stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and turned back toward the flat. He'd cooled off enough by now.

Cooled off so much that a little shiver had slithered up his spine, making the hair on the nape of his neck prickle. He set his teeth and walked a little quicker, listening to his own footsteps following him in the darkness like the slight worry that was beginning to trail his thoughts.

It was an unfounded worry.

Nothing to take seriously.

And yet he couldn't quite shake it off.

...

"Sherlock? I'm home. Are you still awake?"

It was nearly ten o'clock at night when he got back to the flat and mounted the stairs, trying to keep them from creaking and waking poor Mrs. Hudson.

All the lights in the whole flat were on, making him blink and squint after his long trek out in the gloom.

He thought he heard a groan in the direction of the living room and frowned, making his way toward it.

Sherlock was on the floor beside the sofa, curled in on himself, not moving but muttering endlessly under his breath.

"…Sherlock?" As John stepped closer Sherlock's head snapped up and he fixed wide, unnaturally dark eyes on him, hardly blinking.

John stopped where he was, staring at him. "Are you alright?"

For a few seconds there was no reaction from the detective. Then he finally blinked and looked at him as if just realizing he was there. "Go away."

"No, I'm not going to go away. Something's not right about you. What happened?"

John barely had time to register the Union Jack pillow flying at his face, and only his reflexes as a soldier saved him from the actual impact.

"Sherlock, what the hell—"

"GO AWAY!"

"Look, I know I was crabby earlier, but I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!"

_What on earth…? _

Sherlock was pale and sweaty, and he huddled on the floor, eyes darting around the room, only occasionally focussing on him.

"Oh my god…" John took another step closer, staring into the detective's widely dilated pupils. "You're… Oh my _god._ You're _high!_"

Instead of answering Sherlock only retreated farther away from him, pulling himself up by the arm of the couch and sending nervous glances around the room.

"Are you kidding me?! Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!" John's fists clenched and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. "I leave for AN HOUR AND A HALF—"

"_Can't breathe._" Sherlock clutched at his chest, still looking very tense and uneasy.

"WELL JESUS, HOW MUCH DID YOU TAKE?!"

He fixed John with that overly intense stare again, his whole demeanour going rigid. "What are you doing here?"

"I—I live here, Sherlock." He took a deep breath.

This was an unfamiliar situation by far, though he'd dealt with people who were high before. But never Sherlock.

He'd never seen him so… paranoid.

"You're not really here! You're not coming back!" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly and covered his ears.

"…What are you talking about? I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."

"_LIAR!_" Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he glared poison daggers at him. "YOU'RE LYING, JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM!"

_The rest of them… _


	9. Chapter 9

_"I'm not leaving you."_

_Lie._

_"I won't abandon you."_

_False._

_"I'm your friend."_

_I don't have friends._

_"You mean something to me."_

_Then why do you __**all leave?**_

_No…_

_Don't answer that._

_I know why._

...

"Sherlock, hang on—look at me!" John dipped his head to try and catch the detective's eye, but he'd clammed up again and wasn't responding. "No, look at me! I—" _How should he do this…? _"I'm staying here—whether you like it or not! I—_listen_—will not _leave you._"

"Yes you will! You're human! _That's what people do!_"

_Hadn't he heard that line somewhere before…?_

Sherlock clutched at his chest again, long white fingers pulling at his collar and managing to tear off the first two buttons, exposing his pale throat and collarbone before he seemed to decide that wasn't actually going to help with the uncomfortable tightness. He sucked in a deep breath and stared around the room.

John followed his intense gaze, but if there was really anything there to see then it wasn't for John's eyes.

_Hallucinations, probably._

_Textbook._

When he looked back again Sherlock was yanking up his sleeves with a focussed resolve.

_Also textbook? _

"No, Sherlock, wait—" He almost tripped on the fallen throw pillow in his haste to get over to him, but Sherlock pushed back and tried to retreat to the bookshelf.

John grabbed him by both wrists and held him firmly. When Sherlock found he couldn't escape the hands he gave up and slumped against him, mumbling pleadingly.

"Let me go… please… _Please,_ it's too much—I have to—let go of me…"

His breaths came ragged, and—no.

No, that was not happening.

That could not be happening.

His shoulders were only shaking because of the drug.

That shine on his cheek was only sweat.

Only…

Sherlock Holmes didn't cry.

He would let drops of blood fall before teardrops.

He never cried.

_Never. _

John felt as if the whole room were caught in some sort of time warp, where he and Sherlock were the only two who weren't frozen solid. Nothing else mattered then, because at that moment the great Sherlock Holmes, famous, enigmatic, cold, calculating, absolutely brilliant, funny-hat-wearing, consulting detective of 221B Baker Street sobbed into his blogger's shoulder.

He just stood there, letting him lean against him but not quite sure if he should release his wrists in order to put an arm around his shoulders.

Should he say something?

No use, his mind was blank.

This was something he had always thought he could bet his life on never happening. Now that it was it all seemed a little too daunting—a little out of control.

Somehow even when Sherlock had carved his hurt into his own skin he had outwardly seemed… the same as ever.

Strong.

In control.

John now realized he had needed that.

He, not Sherlock.

But now even that mask had slipped, and for the time being Sherlock didn't seem to have the energy to put it back on. So for now, until that happened, John would have to be the one to be strong enough for the both of them. To carry it all and not complain, just the way Sherlock had for 32 years…

With a little sigh he let go of one of Sherlock's wrists and carefully wrapped his free arm around his trembling shoulders. There was resistance to the touch at first; John could feel it. Of course he wouldn't be used to physical contact, he'd had so very little of it in his lifetime.

Of course.

But after a few moments the resistance weakened, because he needed this. This was something he required but didn't know he did, because he'd never allowed it to happen before.

And maybe there had never been anyone there to just… hold him.

To rub his back in slow, gentle circles.

To murmur reassuring things into his messy curls.

To listen.

To stay.

_To exist._

But now John was here. And he wasn't going _anywhere,_ not until his dying day—because Sherlock had once saved his life, when he'd rescued him from the lonely monotony of civilian existence, and now John was going to return the favour.

Not like he had when he'd saved Sherlock by shooting the cabby.

Or like any times after that.

This time he would save him from a much, much worse fate, something so much more painful and drawn-out.

In a different way.

This time he would have to save him from himself.

John knew what loneliness felt like. He knew from previous experience that it was sharp and searing and dull and heavy and bitter and burning and probably so much worse for someone who'd lived his entire life that way.

And he couldn't bear to watch his best friend pretend to handle it all.

Sherlock let out a shaky little sigh, and he could feel some of the tense muscles beginning to relax.

"…Sherlock?" John's voice came out as a whisper. "Do you want to sit down?"

As much as just standing right here was good, John's legs were getting a little weak from holding the taller man up, and collapsing probably wouldn't be the best course of action.

When they were situated on the sofa, among the haphazard pillows and the stray paper or two, Sherlock leaned back and very, very slowly inched over so his body rested against John's shoulder. Even high as a kite he retained a little of his hesitancy.

John was still holding his wrist, and as they sat there in the quiet he found his fingertips running gently over the white scars, slightly raised from the rest of Sherlock's smooth skin. So many of them…

An idea was slowly forming in his head, one he batted around in there like a game of tennis, back and forth, trying to decide if he should say it or not. Eventually the scars won the game.

He spoke softly, looking over at the detective. "Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"I know you probably won't remember this when you're sober, but… D'you think…" He sighed. "Would you make a little pact with me? A pact to say that from now on, you won't cut if you're feeling sad. If you ever feel like doing it, you can come to me and I'll try my damndest to make it better. Because I'm staying right here, don't you ever doubt that."

Sherlock was listening quietly, not about to speak yet, but listening.

"I'm a man of my word, you know that." He continued to brush over the scars with the pad of his thumb. "Don't you ever worry that I'm going to up and leave you, alright? Because I understand. Sure, you can be a _massive_ twat sometimes, and I might get cross—with good reason—but that's never going to make me leave. I promise. You don't have to go it alone anymore."

_Fuck, now John was the one tearing up._

He blinked hard. "So. Deal?"

Sherlock sat there in silence for a while, and John had just begun to wonder if he'd somehow managed to fall asleep with his eyes open, but then he nodded slightly.

"Deal."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock didn't remember.

He must not have remembered any of it.

In the days that followed there was nothing spoken about what happened, no acknowledgement of the breakdown, or the conversation, or even the fact that Sherlock had shot up out of the blue.

_Did he even remember doing that?_

He must.

Right?

Regardless, no new lines appeared during the now routine inspections of the detective's arms.

It occurred to John that arms weren't the only places a person could cut, but given Sherlock's disposition he wasn't sure if it would work out so well if he asked to check anywhere else.

Not to mention awkward.

Because even if it were the most standard thing ever, Sherlock could make it awkward.

So he made sure his arms were clean, and took him at his word from there.

He still maintained that he wasn't bored anymore and had quit—but by now John just let it roll off his back, nodding and responding, but not really listening.

Even if drugs were probably the second worst thing Sherlock could have gone back to, John was at least a little indebted to them.

Or at least, to their effects on his best friend.

They allowed him to get a clearer look into what was actually going on inside that brilliant mind, to understand a little bit more of what drove him to…

Do things.

He would never have told him if he were sober.

Someone bumped into him and he looked around, snapped out of his thoughts, but it was just a fellow shopper trying to get past in the crowded grocery isle. He apologized without thinking and moved on, checking his list again.

Milk was next…

His mobile buzzed with a text alert, but at the moment his hands were full and he ignored it. When it buzzed a second, and then a third time, he groaned and shifted his things around in his hands so he could get at his pocket.

_Fine… _

His brow furrowed as he unlocked it.

**3 new messages:**

_John, please come home. –SH_

_Now. –SH_

_Please. –SH_

John hoped Sherlock didn't know just how much ice that simple _'please'_ sent through his veins, or just how fast he put everything down and dashed out to the street to hail a cab.

He fumbled a little with the keypad and managed to type out a hasty response.

_Are you okay? –JW_

_Sherlock? –JW_

_Why aren't you responding? –JW_

_Come __**on!**__ Reply already! –JW_

_Say something! –JW_

The cab had barely stopped in front of 221B before John was out the door and tearing up the stairs. He flung the door open—and stopped where he was.

Sherlock turned his head lazily and glanced at him from where he was lounging in the armchair, cleaning his violin bow.

"Ah, there you are. Took you long enough."

John let out a huge breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His knees were suddenly jelly, and his heart still refused to stop doing backflips.

"SHERLOCK, YOU—DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I—" He gasped and leaned a hand against the doorframe for support. "WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU TEXT BACK?!"

The detective raised an eyebrow languidly at his tone and went back to cleaning the bow. "Mobile dropped under the chair. Couldn't be bothered."

"YOU 'COULDN'T BE BOTHERED'—GOD, THAT'S—WHY AM I EVEN SURPRISED? WHY THE _HELL_ AM I EVEN—"

He didn't even look up. "When you're finished overreacting, you can get me that copy of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ from the shelf. Third volume."

John stood there, mouth agape, staring at Sherlock's bent head in disbelief. After several long moments Sherlock looked up at him enquiringly.

"Let me get this straight." John spoke firmly and slowly, trying to control the way his blood had begun to boil.

Sherlock nodded, still watching him.

"You… called me here…"

"Mm hmm."

"…From all the way down at the shops…"

"Mm hmm."

"…So I could _fetch you the bloody Encyclopaedia._"

"Well, that is basically exactly what I just said, yes."

"IT'S HARDLY THREE METERS AWAY FROM YOU! I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN TROUBLE! YOU ARE _SO—_"

Sherlock just sat there, rolling his eyes and waiting out the storm.

"_YOU FUCKING PRAT!_ I'M NOT YOUR DOG, YOU ARSE! I WAS RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF GETTING THE GROCERIES! I DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT, YOU KNOW! OR I WOULDN'T, IF YOU WOULD GET UP AND DO AT LEAST _SOME THINGS_ BY YOURSELF, _YOU_ _IDLE_ _TWAT!_"

Hurricane Watson raged on for several more minutes before running out of steam, and all the while Sherlock tapped his bow against his temple, barely stifling a yawn.

When John seemed to have finished spewing abuse Sherlock set his feet up on the coffee table casually and leaned back. "Volume three."

John stumped heavily over to the bookshelf, still cursing under his breath. He stretched up and pulled the large book down from the shelf, pausing from his muttering as something small and shiny came along with it and clattered onto the floor.

He frowned, bending to retrieve the thing, the ice in his blood starting to return.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Ah, yes. That." He hadn't even looked up. "You can keep it."

"I can… Sherlock, where did you get this? How long has it been under here?"

"That's hardly important."

"No, it is! I want to know."

Sherlock sighed, still polishing the bow, though it hardly needed it anymore. "Morgue. Been there a week."

A _week…_

"I haven't used it. I know what you're thinking."

_It wouldn't have taken a super genius to figure that one out._

"But you…" John looked from the Encyclopaedia in one hand to the thin blade in the other. "You called me here for…"

"Forget the stupid book, John."

"But…"

Sherlock groaned with impatience and finally set the bow aside, heaving himself up from the chair. "Don't look so confused."

"Well I wouldn't if you could just explain—"

Sherlock sidestepped piles of papers and a cardboard box on the floor and took the Encyclopaedia from John's hands, turning to slip it back into its place on the shelf. "It's not so hard to understand, really." He turned back around. "You said I should come to you."


	11. Chapter 11

John found himself standing there for several extraordinarily long moments, just looking back into Sherlock's face. The detective's cool gray-blue eyes were fixed on him, perhaps waiting, but they seemed guarded.

Of course they would be—even as he took such a large step into the void of chance, he would have to be prepared with extra walls to protect himself, just in case.

John wished he didn't.

Then again, the amount of courage that one step must have taken…

"You mean, you remember—"

Sherlock raised a hand to silence him. "Don't."

"But you called me because you—"

"I said don't." He kept his eyes on John's face carefully and didn't let them stray down to the blade in his hands.

"Well what do you need me to do, then? If you want, I could—"

"No. Just stay."

There were a few more moments of silence, and then John nodded.

He understood.

His hand closed around the blade lightly, feeling the cold bite of the metal against his skin. It sent a shiver up the back of his neck, and twisted a knot in the pit of his stomach.

He hated blades.

He hated them so fucking much.

Sherlock turned on his heel and returned to the armchair, back straight, shoulders squared, chin up.

Compensating.

"Er… D'you want me to get you a cup of tea or something?" He slipped the blade into his pocket. He'd have to deal with it later. Right now he needed to focus his whole attention on the situation.

The detective regarded him thoughtfully, and then shook his head.

John now caught the subtle clench of the jaw, the fingertips slipped up under his sleeve, the way he sat curled up on himself tightly.

This was killing him.

And it was obviously taking an enormous amount of energy to pretend that it wasn't.

He bit his lip and walked to the couch, settling himself so he could look over at Sherlock, close enough to be reassuring but not so close as to crowd him, which was a difficult judgement to make.

After a while he bit his lip and rested his chin in his palm, watching the silent struggle.

"Sherlock? –No, I'm not going to shut up now, thanks." He dismissed the mumbled rejection stoically and went on. "I want to help."

The detective rolled over so he could fix those guarded eyes on him again, the pupils of which were constricted with distress. "You are helping."

"Not as much as I could be. You texted me because you needed somebody. I don't want to just sit here now and watch you try to do this all by yourself."

Sherlock's teeth were gritted. "I don't _try._ I _do._ And I don't _need_ anyone. I am all that I require."

_Sherlock Holmes._

_The closest thing to an island any man could ever be. _

_But the tide has to turn some time._

"Liar."

He blinked and frowned at John, not quite sure he'd heard him right. "What did you—"

"Sherlock. You don't have to protect yourself from me." _Oh, he'd struck a chord there._ "I'm just trying to help you. That's all I'm trying to do. Maybe that doesn't sound very plausible to you, but it's the truth. I'm just a normal human being; I do some things simply because I care about somebody, and I don't have any ulterior motives. Let me help you."

John could feel Sherlock staring at him, his intense gaze burning holes in him. But there was something approaching innocent confusion in his eyes now. Maybe his walls were cracking slightly…?

Sherlock took a few minutes, lips parted and then closed again as he faltered, for once in his life.

"Are you okay?" John leaned forward and spoke gently.

"…You care about me?"

John sat frozen on the couch, staring at the detective in astonishment that momentarily stole his voice and crumpled his train of thought into a tight wad of unintelligible garbage.

How could he…

Wasn't it obvious…?

He'd thought for sure…

But he really didn't…

"Sher… Well, yeah. Of course I do. You're my best friend in the whole world, Sherlock. I've said that before. What did you think I…?"

But Sherlock wasn't responding. His wide eyes were locked on John's face, unblinking, and the seconds stretched out into long minutes.

"Sherlock…?"

Still no answer.

John leaned forward again, half tempted to wave a hand in front of his face. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

When he finally seemed to break out of the daze he blinked and looked down at his hands a little unsteadily, his brows still furrowed.

"Do you want to tell me what the hell that was about?"

"I…" He glanced up at John. "I mean… I just didn't think…"

_A speechless Holmes?_

_What was the world coming to?_

"I didn't expect anyone would… could…" He swallowed. "You looked serious."

"That's because I was serious. And I still am. You are, honestly, my best friend."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but this time it wasn't snarky; instead he seemed completely out of his element. "I… I thought you were only saying that because of your instincts as a doctor… To try to put me at ease… Or something… And I didn't expect…"

"You—what? How could you think—?! Why would you doubt that? That's just—"

_Oh…_

_Oh._

All this time, it hadn't been _Sherlock_ who was ignorant because he had no idea how much of a rude, insulting prick he could be—

—It had truly been _everyone else_ who was ignorant.

Because they didn't realize that _he knew._

He _knew_ he lacked the skills necessary to get along with human beings without conflict. He _knew_ he pushed people away. He _knew_ he wasn't the most likable person on the planet.

_He knew people generally couldn't stand him. _

And he had never expected anyone could _possibly_ find him to be best friend material.

He'd thought John had been lying to him.

All this time.

That would explain a lot, actually.

Too much.

_Sherlock Holmes._

_So very close to humanity, and yet so very, very far. _

_The most isolated man alive._


	12. Chapter 12

"For a genius, you can be so incredibly thick sometimes." John put his face in his hands and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry… But it's true. All this time…"

"I couldn't help but—"

"It's okay. It's not your fault. It isn't criticism." He lifted his head and looked at him again, blinking hard.

Sherlock looked highly uncomfortable, especially now that John had started tearing up.

_Why did humans have to do that…? _

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"Sorry for what?" Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest on the chair and wrapped his arms around them defensively.

"For… Everything you never had."

"What do you mean?" His voice was short and tight, trying to remain unaffected. "I had what I needed."

John shook his head. "You think you did, but you didn't know. You must have missed out on so much…"

The detective clearly disliked the idea of not knowing something, and he scowled.

Not his fault.

"Sorry…" John cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Sherlock's arms. "Do you still feel like you want to…?"

He considered quietly for a moment. "Maybe…"

"Well, now that we've confirmed that I do, in fact, care about you, let me help. Honestly help."

After a few more moments Sherlock nodded slowly.

...

The buzzing of the doorbell caught Sherlock mid-sentence. He had moved to stretch out on the couch beside John, and was in the middle of explaining the solutions to cold cases the doctor would ask him about as he found them on the internet.

It was really quite extraordinary, and the distraction and praise seemed to be doing wonders for his mood.

He was just about to explain who killed Marilee Burt in 1970 when he was interrupted.

Damn.

John was really getting into it.

He groaned and heaved himself up off the couch. "Mrs. Hudson's not home, so I guess I'll get it…"

He was aware of Sherlock's eyes on his back, and then the detective sighed and rolled over into the cushions.

Not a sad sigh this time.

Just impatient.

Just… Sherlock.

John suppressed a little smile as he went to the door. It felt good to finally see that same old bad attitude again—a statement that he knew was completely insane, but it was true all the same.

But the smile disappeared when he opened the door to find Mycroft Holmes standing there. The appearance of the elder Holmes usually heralded the arrival of trouble in some form or another shortly thereafter, or a case.

Of course, there wasn't much difference between the two most of the time.

"I would enquire if this is a bad time, but I'm afraid either way I would have to insist that I speak with you." Mycroft shot him a polite smile.

"Uh…" John glanced back into the flat, where Sherlock still hadn't moved. "I guess I've got a minute."

As they mounted the steps Sherlock finally sat up and assumed an uninterested posture, directing his eyes toward the window, determined to ignore his brother.

"Have a seat, then." John gestured loosely to the chairs, and Mycroft nodded in thanks and settled himself in the armchair, legs crossed and hands clasped over his knee.

"Now. You know I don't dilly-dally, and there's no point in pleasantries now, so I'll just jump right into it."

John glanced over at Sherlock, still sitting beside him, and still as resolute as ever.

"Certain things have… come to my attention."

Oh.

_Of course…_

"I would have come by sooner, but the situation seemed to be under control, for the most part, until recently."

John couldn't contain the scornful sound that tore itself out of his throat, despite Mycroft's raised eyebrow and Sherlock's sidelong glance.

"Sorry, but—what part of that was _'under control'? _I thought I was going to have a heart attack every time I came home from work! You didn't even…" He was going to say _'come visit him in the hospital,'_ but something told him that wouldn't be accepted very well by either Holmes.

It was suddenly infuriating, the way Mycroft looked down his nose at them. The way he sat there so cool and calm and collected—

—And why _hadn't_ he showed up when Sherlock was admitted and given an emergency blood transfusion? Surely he knew about it. He knew everything about everyone, or at least that's the way it seemed sometimes.

Why hadn't he been there to support his little brother?

This was exactly what John had been talking about before—_everything you never had._

"I apologize, but there didn't seem to be any immediate danger that I did not believe you capable of handling."

Oh.

Mycroft went on, "However, now I do find myself concerned with the way things are going. And I'm afraid to say that it might be time to do something about it."

Sherlock tensed noticeably.

"You're concerned _now?_ Things are getting better, Mycroft!" John's fists clenched in his lap. "I don't know what you think you're seeing, but I'm pretty sure Sherlock's alright for now! He's clean!"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and gazed at him.

"And you believed him?"


	13. Chapter 13

He did believe him.

He did.

He did believe in Sherlock Holmes.

_But should he?_

Sherlock's head had snapped around to glare at his brother with eyes so cold they burned.

"Yes." John kept his voice under control, for now. "He said he was, and I believe him."

The elder Holmes leaned back in his chair and regarded them slowly, regally, but there was also something very, very tired about his manner. "This is a very old habit of my brother's. It's gone on so long that it's become second nature, rather a friend, and is likely not something he will be very interested in stopping. He, like myself, can be very manipulative when he stands to lose something."

John felt the sofa shift beside him as Sherlock stood up. He continued to glare at Mycroft with a look so intense that it made even John uncomfortable.

"Mycroft. _Shut up._"

The standoff stretched out for several long minutes as Mycroft looked back up at him steadily, and John stared from one to the other.

"I came here for the sole purpose of ensuring—"

"I said shut up. You can both stop talking as if I can't hear you. Secondly, I have done _nothing_ for over two weeks! I _am_ clean. Despite what you may believe, I do have self-control."

That sounded as honest as the first time Sherlock had told him he'd stopped.

But when was the last time Mycroft had been wrong?

Did that mean…?

No. He didn't want to think that.

Sherlock didn't lie to him. He wouldn't just use him like that.

"I said nothing about your self-control, though I would like to. You claim to have 'done nothing,' but as I understand it John found you high out of your mind barely a week ago. I would not consider that 'nothing.' If that is your definition, then I can only wonder what else may be included."

Mycroft had a point…

Sherlock blinked and glanced away for a second. "That… was an alternative."

"Pardon?"

He cleared his throat and set his jaw. "A last-ditch effort to avoid doing… it."

"Hardly a step up."

"There weren't many 'step ups' available at the time." Sherlock's reply was snarky and genuine—not the sort of thing he said when he was trying to lie or persuade.

Maybe…

"And you expect me to believe you because…?"

"Because it's the truth. You haven't slept well for a while, I see. Could it be that you're getting antsy because you worry you can't control every detail about my life now? Your anxiety is making you delusional."

"I am anything but delusional, Sherlock. I aim only to make sure you don't end up dead on the floor and ruin the landlady's carpet."

Sherlock went white, and John stood quickly before either of them could say any more. "Okay, break it up! You're both delusional! Am I seriously the only one here who can think rationally for once?"

That one earned him two very surprised stares.

He took a deep breath and continued. _He just better be right about this. _"Mycroft—you care about him a lot, I can see that. But you're going about it the wrong way. You're so caught up in making sure he isn't lying that you're convinced he is. And Sherlock, I know he's overbearing, but he is just trying to help." He paused, suddenly uncomfortable with giving such a little speech. "I can't believe I'm having to explain this."

The brothers glanced at each other, for the moment united in their astonishment, though that remained understated, because, well, _they were the Holmes._

John couldn't tell if they were convinced, but at least neither of them was spitting harsh words at him about it. Yet.

He crossed his arms.

This was ridiculous.

Both of them must care about each other, they were brothers for god's sake—but they were too stubborn to admit it, or to show it in any way. They seemed determined to one-up each other in their elaborate 'I-don't-give-a-shit' display.

It was probably the stupidest thing John had ever seen. _Time for a change._

"Mycroft, stand up. I'm sick of this."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Am I being asked to leave, then…?"

"No. Just get up." He turned to Sherlock. "And you, stay right there."

Sherlock seemed torn between glaring at Mycroft and shooting searching glances at John. When the two of them were standing next to each other, save for the deliberate space between them, John nodded and took a breath, arms still crossed stubbornly.

"John, what are you even—"

"You two are brothers, and you need to start acting like it. I don't care if it kills you, you're going to hug each other."

From the looks on their faces, maybe it _would_ kill them.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, _come on!_ It's not that hard! People do it all the time!"

They spoke at the same time. "I'm not sure, in our situation—"

"_No._"

"I'm not taking no for answer." John tapped his foot impatiently and squared his shoulders.

Honestly, their expressions were ridiculous.

And so was their attitude.

But god dammit, they were just going to have to get over themselves.

"I'm waiting."

"I'll walk out." Sherlock muttered warningly.

"Do that and I'll let Mycroft do whatever he was planning on to 'help you.'"

"It's not as if I would let—"

John rolled his eyes and gave him a firm shove forward, and Sherlock found himself face to face with his brother, stumbling into him so Mycroft was forced to catch him before they both went tumbling over backwards.

Sherlock's face was ashen, and Mycroft, too, looked decidedly out of his depth.

"Proper hug. That's all I'm asking for. You two never show each other you care, and you both need it."

They hesitated, and seemed to decide there was no other way out.

It wasn't exactly what John would call a 'proper hug'; it was uncomfortable and quick, and Sherlock had no idea what to do with his hands and ended up just patting his back awkwardly.

When it was over they separated promptly, each trying desperately to regain his stoic composure without looking each other in the eyes.

But…

At least it was something.


End file.
